Page 29 of Ford
From the moment Ruby Jane Marshall had sent him that first email—and yes, she sent it to his private, encrypted account, but it was so obviously from an amateur—he knew he couldn’t close his eyes.
He should have closed that account two years ago. But it kept him alive. He’d tried to wave her off by not responding to her emails. But they kept coming. One after the other, hour by hour, and with her travel plans included for every hacker to discover.
Or just one, as it turned out. The wrong one.
York blamed his stupid curious—and bleeding—heart for getting him into this one.
“How do I look?”
York was leaning against the doorjamb, his arms folded as she came out of the bedroom.
Leather pants hugged her legs, a fuzzy off-the-shoulder black shirt showed off her pale shoulders, and big gold loops hung from her ears.
Oh boy. Okay, so maybe even he wouldn’t recognize her.
She wore her dark hair down, sable brown and shiny, and even without makeup, the woman’s blue eyes felt too big, too probing, like they could take him apart if he connected too long.
Maybe see his demons.
Still. Uh-huh. He held in the deep hum of appreciation that rippled through him and managed a cool nod.
Okay, he liked her. A little.
She was tougher than he’d given her credit for when he’d chased her down the street. She’d been acting more on impulse than smarts after seeing General Stanislov go down. York didn’t have to connect the dots to figure out she’d been set up, given her expression when Stanislov was shot. But when she hit the dirt, responding to the shouts of the general’s security, when he saw the gun bounce out of her purse, York took off running.
He hadn’t been exactly sure what he was going to do, really, if the FSB got their hands on her, but he hoped to intercept her before that happened.
The woman possessed legs. And not just for running, because those leather pants slid like a second skin over her and—
Okay.Stop. He clearly hadn’t been around an American woman for a while. He hadn’t meant to sound annoyed, or even belittling, earlier. He was simply still trying to unsnarl his brain, figure out who might have set her—them?—up.
And how was he going to get them out of the city?
Them? No,her.
He had reasons to stay.
“That’ll do,” York said now in response to her question and ignored the tiny frown, the dip of disappointment on her face.
He wasn’t here to make friends.
“Let’s get going.” He held out her black jacket and she slid it on. Then she stood up and slipped on those ugly flats. But he couldn’t really make her wear heels—not if they ended up running.
“Ready,” she said. “Where are we going?”
“Lots of places,” he said. “But I’m hoping to end up at my friend Kat’s place.”
“Why? Can she make fake passports?”
He frowned at her. “No. This isn’t a James Bond movie. I’m not scoring you a fake passport.”
Yet.
Okay, that might be a good idea.
“Sorry. I just thought…how are you going to get us out of the country?”
“You, sweetheart.” He reached for the door. “I’m getting you out. I’m not leaving. And, I’m working on it.”